


Monster

by crutal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-War, Slow Burn, draco loves his little savior boy, drarry but as canon as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22188595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crutal/pseuds/crutal
Summary: "You wait, Potter. I'll have you."May 2nd will always be etched into Draco Malfoy's memories, but with Harry Potter, the Chosen One, on his side, will he receive the redemption he deserves amongst his peers and the rest of the wizarding world, or will he forever be an outcast?Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own Potterverse or these characters. I have, however, manifested a good portion of the plot, feelings of the characters, and dialogue.Originally posted on Mibba, but continued on here.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Drarry - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	1. Hastily Repaired Slytherin

There was nothing Draco Malfoy couldn't handle, he was sure of that. He had, of course, almost successfully killed Dumbledore. He had suffered terrible wraths not only from his own father, but from the Dark Lord himself on numerous occasions. He had gotten the same number of OWLs as Mudblood Granger, and had gotten an E in Arithmancy only because he had slacked off. He had hidden his Dark Mark for a whole year, and he had survived Potter's stupid attack in the bathroom. He was a pureblooded Slytherin and a Death Eater at that, and he could have the world at his feet if he so pleased.

But on the second of May, 1998, Draco was caught off guard by how quickly things could change. He was numb with disbelief as he sat at the hastily repaired Slytherin table in the Great Hall between his equally stunned parents. They whispered around him, blotting out some of the grateful and saddened speech that swarmed around him. He couldn't bear to look up from the table, but the one time he did look up, he saw Potter looking almost as confused and quiet as Draco.

A shudder ran through Draco as he glanced towards the direction of where the Dark Lord's body laid, separated from the good sixty or so other bodies. Potter had finally defeated the Dark Lord. He wondered dully if his family should've left long ago, and how much time they would have before Aurors would round all of the Death Eaters up and imprisoned them… or worse, killed them all.

He felt like he might would get sick from the smell of the blood, rubble, and food. He glared at a jug of pumpkin juice as if it was its fault that his whole family could be killed within hours. The next time he looked up, Potter had mysteriously disappeared. Draco had half a mind to follow him and see how Potter liked it; he would never forget how Potter had followed him all through sixth year like he had been some child that needed watched.

To occupy himself, he tuned into his parents' whispered conversation, hoping to find some glimmer of faith to tide his fears.

"… but Lucius, we can't just leave the country, that could make them all the more willing to find us and kill us," his mother hissed over Draco's bowed head.

"Yes, but what else can we do, Narcissa? You can't be suggesting that we stay like obedient mutts until they remember that we were on the forefront of the Dark Lord's followers! Malfoys do _not_ go down without a fight," his father replied, obviously trying to keep his voice calm.

"And it will turn into a fight if we don't just…" Narcissa trailed off, panic radiating off of her. She continued, putting a little force behind her words. "I don't want to give in any more than you do, but maybe if we just... apologize or something!"

Lucius laughed humorlessly. "I'd rather empty my whole Gringotts vault than say sorry to those… those…" He also trailed off, unable to find a competent enough word to describe everyone who had fought against the Dark Lord.

_Prats. Tossers. Gits. Stupid fuckers,_ Draco filled in for his own amusement, but the words sounded empty. Not only had Potter saved him in the Room of Hidden Things, but someone else had saved his life from his own side. He hadn't any idea who it could have been, but after being roughly punched in the face, he could have sworn he heard Weasley's agitated bellow. But someone on the other side had saved him, and even though they had won, he felt no real anger towards them. This only infuriated him further. When he was younger, he would've sought out someone to hex right away to relieve him of his annoyance, but he had grown up in the last year. A cold calm washed over him and he interrupted his parents for the first time in his life.

"I think we should turn ourselves in," he said in a frosty tone.

Narcissa and Lucius leaned towards him, surprise and outrage on their grimy pale faces. "Son, you must be joking–" "Malfoys don't do such things–"

Draco cocked his head and held up a finger for silence. Once he was sure they would not speak again, he started again. "If we turn ourselves in, we have a better chance of having a fair trial. And then, our fate is simply in the hands of higher powers," he concluded.

Lucius snorted. "And you think that will save us? Perhaps that Potter or any number of those other ignorant fools will save your neck?"

Draco fell silent, suddenly regretting he said anything, even though he knew he was right. Well, if they wanted to be sent to Azkaban or executed, he wasn't going to try and reason with them. They returned to arguing and he felt sick again, the icy calm receding and leaving him empty again.

Draco found he couldn't handle as much as he thought. He couldn't handle being saved by Potter. He couldn't handle death. He couldn't handle being put down by his father again.

And most of all, he couldn't handle the way he felt when he saw the great oaf, Hagrid, carrying the supposedly dead body of Potter.


	2. Biding His Time

Eventually, the Malfoy family slipped away and escaped Hogwarts completely unnoticed. Draco wasn't surprised by that, though; no one had paid attention to them in the Great Hall anyway. The three walked towards Hogsmeade and their fate silently. They were all wandless: Lucius's wand had been blasted apart early last summer, and Draco's wand had been stolen by Potter. Narcissa alone had kept her wand until she had given it to Draco, who had lost it in the run to get out of the Room of Hidden Things.

Draco shivered, fully aware that they were unsafe. They had lived in this world for their whole lives with the protection of a wand and quick wit, but now they had as much protection as a weaponless Muggle. He drew his bedraggled cloak tighter around him in an attempt to seal in some heat against the chilling mist.

"Mr. Malfoy!" a voice carried from behind them, and the three Malfoys turned warily. Professor Slughorn hobbled along the ruined path to them, sidestepping a huge dead spider. "I was wondering where you three were going?" he huffed.

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance and took a small step backwards. "I'm afraid that we must be leaving," Lucius said in an undertone that made Draco flinch. He remembered the tone meaning that punishment was coming, and he felt a knife of fear run through him for Slughorn.

Professor Slughorn pulled out his wand from the inside of his tattered robes and pointed it at them. "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but I'm afraid I can't let you do that. You are very well-known Death Eaters, and the Aurors will soon arrive for you."

Draco rubbed his left arm, imagining how it would feel to be locked up. He couldn’t even imagine it. His father had been in Azkaban for a while; he came back colder and more closed off than before. If there was one thing Draco had learned this year, he did not want to become his father as much as he had before.

For a moment, Lucius almost looked smug. Draco could only imagine what he must be thinking. Most likely it was along the lines that the Dark Lord could save them as he always had. Something in his father’s face fell away once he must have realized that they no longer held the Dark Lord’s protection.

A shudder ran through Draco, part fear and part disgust; he felt like unprotected Muggle filth.

Beyond the gate that they had almost reached, a few pops signaled newcomers. The Malfoys tightened ranks and watched helplessly as Aurors swarmed forward to collect any straggling Death Eaters or magical creatures that had been on the Dark Lord’s side.

A rather pretty witch in her mid-thirties clamped her hand down on Draco’s shoulder and pulled him away from his parents a few feet. Her chipped green talons bit into a stretch of bare skin but he refused to flinch. She pressed her wand tip into his jugular, malice twisting her pretty features into something hideous.

He tried to glance back at his struggling parents but the Auror dug her nails into his flesh deeper.

“Get a good look at them now. You’ll never see your disgusting parents ever again, where you’re going,” she snarled, forcing him to look at his mother and father.

Narcissa looked up to Draco’s face. He could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes before she looked away again, still struggling against the two men who had captured her.

“Let’s just Stun them and lock them up,” the huge wizard holding Lucius said.

“Yes,” the witch replied gleefully. “I would really appreciate not having to listen to their pathetic whimpering on the way back.”

Even before Draco could hear their muttered words, he was out.

ϟ

He woke up on a threadbare cot and automatically knew that he was not in Azkaban. The wizarding prison, his father had said, had no such comforts. Why would they? The place had already been swarming with dementors; who cared if the prisoners were comfortable while they slept?

Draco took a mental evaluation of his physical state. Other than just being sore and tired, he had all ten fingers and ten toes, and all his limbs were intact. He probably had quite a few bruises, but he was fine. He sighed in relief. He was alive – that’s what counted.

He continued to stare at the stone ceiling, listening to the distant screams of other prisoners. He pondered his location. He was obviously not in Azkaban, so perhaps the Ministry was keeping prisoners with them from now on.

He was grateful that he wasn’t in Azkaban, at least. No dementors here, he was sure. They were probably being rounded up as well, just like the Death Eaters.

From nearby, he heard shouting and he turned his head slowly towards the bars of his cell. Out in the corridor, a few Aurors struggled with someone who looked a bit like Rowle.

“You think you can find all of his followers, but you’re wrong. You blood traitor filth, get your paws off!” screamed Rowle as he kicked out at the same woman who had taken Draco.

Rowle looked over into Draco’s cell, a crazy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “They got you, Draco? Just wait. We’ll break out soon. We always d–“

A big Auror silenced Rowle with a punch to the gut. “No one’s getting out of here,” he growled as they continued down the corridor to lock up Rowle.

Draco returned to staring back up at the ceiling, biding his time until he could break out of this hell.


	3. A Dull Fire

Time was sluggish and hours melted into days. By the fifth day, any faith that Draco had was dwindling. He was never going to be saved from this place. The screams of his fellow Death Eaters promised this. After the sixth day of staring at the ceiling and running the Battle in his mind over and over again, he decided to stop picking at the measly meals they left for him.

He was going to starve himself to death.

The idea of death scared him. He had spent his whole life fighting it by staying on the winning side. But now, he saw no reason to live. So, day by day, he slowly started to waste away, his hips and ribs jutting from his skin, his shoulder blades and collar bone knives against his flesh. When an Auror came to check on him, they would sneer, like they were making some injustice just.

He continued to stare at the ceiling.

The nightmares made it worse. When Draco did manage to sleep, it was restless and full of Fiendfyre. In his dreams, he was chased by the fiery beasts, the sound of the cursed fire roaring in his ears. Sometimes he would dream of watching wizards and witches die under the hands of his fellow Death Eaters.

He often woke up screaming.

ϟ

On the twentieth day of imprisonment, a silver lynx came to the guard outside of Draco’s cell. “Court date for Draco Malfoy set for the twenty-fifth of May,” the cat said in a deep voice. It dissolved in front of the stunned guard.

The guard turned to look at Draco, smirking evilly. It reminded Draco painfully of himself at one point in time. “It looks like ye have three days ter create a good case fer yerself, Malfoy.”

Draco sat up and picked up the small cup of water he allowed himself every day. The nightmares of the Fiendfyre made him feverish and sick, and the only thing that helped was the coppery-tasting water they left him. He took a sip and continued to stare blankly at the guard. Why would he need a trial now? He was not innocent. The more he thought of the Battle, the more he thought that maybe he did kill someone. He couldn’t remember anymore.

“I’d say yer as guilty as they come,” the guard continued. “The youngest Death Eater we’ve got in here. There’s no way ye’ve got a clean record.” The guard bared his teeth in a sneer.

Draco returned the smile. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice raspy and cracked. He cleared his throat, creating a dull fire.

Behind the guard, a silver otter ran up. “Malfoy!” A feminine, bossy voice issued from the mouth of the otter. The guard jumped and turned to face the Patronus. “Do not give up, Malfoy. Harry’s going to help you with the trial. Do not give up hope.” The otter disbanded into the air.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. Harry Potter was coming to save him, Draco Malfoy. The Chosen One, playing hero for Draco once again. It was almost too comical to be true.

The guard looked back into Draco’s cell, a bewildered look on his ugly face. “Well, maybe ye do have a chance in hell, rot.”

Draco smiled. “Yes,” he repeated, the fire still searing through his throat.

Maybe, just maybe, Draco did have a chance in hell.


	4. Against the Bars

On the twenty-fifth of May, Draco woke up to vomit over the side of his cot. He didn’t care if he ever got out of here. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and wait for death.

A new guard stood outside Draco’s cell today, holding a small wash bowl in his hands. “Wash up, your trial is in ten minutes.” He unlocked the heavy cell door and placed the bowl of water on the floor, nose crinkled against the putrid smell of sick. With disgust coating his face, the guard locked the door back with a flick of his wand and settled down a few cells away, still keeping an eye on Draco.

Draco stared at the wash bowl blankly. Why must he try for no good reason? Potter wasn’t going to be able to save him. Potter wasn’t always going to win, he wasn’t always going to be able to play hero for everyone who needed it. Maybe Potter thought Draco deserved being saved.

He smiled a little at this. Well, if he wasn’t going to wash up for himself, he might as well wash up for Potter. Draco forced himself off his cot and, careful not to step in the vomit that slicked the floor, he stumbled to the wash bowl to splash some water on his face.

He could only imagine how terrible he looked. Stubble pricked his hands as he scrubbed last night’s sweat off his cheeks. His hair flopped low on his forehead in oily swaths. What was left of his robes smelled horrible. He rubbed more furiously at his face, hair, and neck in vain. He doubted he would ever look as pristine and composed as he did before all this mess.

Running his fingers through his hair once more, Draco stood on unsteady legs and pressed his face against the bars. “I’m ready,” he croaked.

ϟ

Draco’s bony arm firmly encased in the guard’s meaty hand, they made their way down to the courtrooms. The guard would’ve been better off just carrying Draco, but he forced him to walk. Each step burned like fire. He was soon drenched in a cold sweat, undoing all the washing he had just done.

Other than the few times that Draco had been in the Atrium, he had never been in the Ministry of Magic, and never this deep into its belly. The guard dragged him a little further, taking him around twists and turns until they came upon a grimy door at the end of a hall.

“This is Courtroom 10,” said the guard, yanking Draco closer. “Your hearing will be held in here.” The guard opened the door and shoved Draco to the chair in the middle of the room. He had barely sat when chains snaked around his arms and legs, holding him down.

A large, balding wizard let out a great sigh from the middle of the front row of the stands. “I’ve done many of these hearings this month, boy, so I’ll be quick. The charges are as follows: The accused acquired a Dark Mark in the summer of 1996, almost two years ago, and knowingly became a Death Eater. This constitutes as an offense under section two of the Decree of Known Death Eater Activity, 1998.

“You are Draco Lucius Malfoy, of Malfoy Mansion, Wiltshire?” the wizard bellowed at Draco.

“Y-yes,” rasped Draco. He greedily searched the sea of faces for a familiar one and found nothing. He was going to lose this case, no doubt about it.

“Do you agree with these charges?”

Draco swallowed hard against the flaming lump in his raw throat. “Yes.” What was he supposed to do? Lie?

The wizard looked surprised. “Well, then. I henceforth sentence you to–“

“No!”

Draco craned his neck around to see who the newcomer was. His heart skipped a beat; there, in all his disheveled glory, was Harry Potter, boy savior of all.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Potter quickly, coming to stand next to Draco’s chair. He glanced down and gave Draco a small, encouraging smile. Potter returned his eyes to the judge. “I was given the wrong time. Apparently the Ministry is still resorting to their old ways of making innocent people guilty?” A few wizards and witches chuckled hesitantly. “What are the charges?”

The head wizard cleared his throat and looked back down at his parchment. “Mr. Malfoy has been charged with known Death Eater activity and the crime of having a Dark Mark branded upon his skin.”

“Oh, so it’s a crime to have physical features marred now? I suppose it’s a crime to have any type of scar, then? I guess I’ll just have to lock myself away too.” It was not a joke, but a few more of the Wizengamot laughed. 

Potter began to pace. “Under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, I believe the accused may present a witness for any given case? Well, here I am. And I, Harry James Potter, would like to say that though Mr. Malfoy has been branded, he’s innocent. He’s never killed anyone, and during the Battle of Hogwarts, he was neutral with his actions.”

“That may be so, but the charges still stand that he does have a Dark Mark,” the wizard wheezed.

“So he was a little stupid when he was younger,” said Potter, his voice growing louder so that Draco cringed. He wouldn’t have said that he was stupid. Maybe a little misled, but stupid was a bit harsh.

“A lot of us were stupid when we were younger. The Mark will fade eventually. Even though the damage Death Eaters and Voldemort did will never be undone, Draco Malfoy never participated in Death Eater activity to the risk of his own life.” Potter stopped pacing in front of the judge.

The wizard pursed his lips and all was silent for a few moments. Suddenly the wizard chuckled and shook his head. “All in favor of clearing Mr. Malfoy of his charges?” A good majority of the hands went up. “All opposed?” The remaining raised their hands. “Excellent. Bring in the next case.”

Draco let out a sigh of relief as the chains slid off of him and clanked threateningly back into place. He was safe. Potter had done his special magic, and Draco was cleared of his charges. He stood on shaky legs and joined Potter in walking out of Courtroom 10.


	5. A Dizzying Spiral

It wasn’t until they came to the Atrium that Potter started to talk to Draco. “So, Malfoy, the Order’s set up a safe house for you for the time being, and I’m supposed to get you there. Do you think you can go through Side-Along Apparition?” Potter gave him a disapproving frown. “Mrs. Weasley’s going to have a field day with you,” he muttered half to himself.

“I’ll be fine, Potter,” rasped Draco. He already looked weak enough without voicing how sick he really was. Merlin forbid if Potter took advantage of him at a time like this. Maybe he would want to pay Draco back for all those school years he had harassed him. That’d be a fine way to go, for the bully to be killed by the bullied.

“Come on, then,” said Potter. He held out his hand, which Draco stared at without touching. Potter let out a sigh of annoyance. “I won’t bite.”

Draco smirked, making him feel a bit more like himself. “Please, Potter. Can’t you get snakes to do that for you?” Without waiting for an answer, he took Potter’s outstretched hand and almost dropped it in surprise. He wasn’t prepared for the shock of electricity to run from Potter’s cool, calloused hand to his own clammy soft one.

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” Potter said from somewhere far away.

“Y-yeah,” replied Draco breathlessly. “Let’s go.”

He barely held on as Potter turned and they were sent into a dizzying spiral. Rubber bands constricted around Draco’s chest, making his ribs slice into his flesh. He couldn’t breathe; everything in his body hurt. Potter’s hand tightened momentarily on Draco’s and the bands burst. He barely got in a lungful of air when he vomited up the water he had drunk earlier.

“I didn’t think you were well enough for that,” said Potter in disgust as he took a step back from Draco.

A little color returned to Draco’s ashen cheeks. “Sorry,” he whispered as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Harry!” a shrill girl’s voice shrieked from behind them. They turned to see Mudblood Granger running towards them at full speed, her bushy brown locks flowing behind her. She flew into Harry, almost knocking him down. “Harry, we just heard a few minutes ago that the trial went well, and that you did great!” She squeezed him and Draco could feel his stomach churn what little was left in there. Granger pulled away from Potter slightly. “Did you bring Malfoy with you?”

Draco scowled. “I’m right here, Granger.”

She looked over at him and covered her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, Malfoy. It’s just… just… have you seen yourself lately?”

“Oh yes,” replied Draco. “You see, in the Ministry, where they’re keeping all of us dangerous Death Eaters, they supply us with mirrors and baths and good meals. I’d say it was even better than what Hogwarts used to be, even though it can never measure up to my mansion,” he added sarcastically, biting his tongue so he wouldn’t slip up and call her a Mudblood out loud.

Granger’s face set into a determined, irritated look, and she put her hands on her waist. “Well, excuse me, Malfoy, I just wanted you to know that you look absolutely horrible. I hardly recognized you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and shook his head in frustration. If he hadn’t used all his voice in telling her off only once, he would’ve done it again. He caught Potter’s eye gave him as much of a pleading look as he could muster.

“Come on, Hermione; let’s get Malfoy inside so Mrs. Weasley can get him cleaned up,” said Potter.

Granger nodded and gave Potter a smile. “Sure. We need to talk, and Mrs. Weasley wants to feed you too. She says you’re still too thin.” Together they laughed, making Draco feel more alone than ever.

Potter and Granger started walking back towards a quaint brick house. Draco followed the two through a lush garden and through a backdoor, into a kitchen almost eight times the size of Draco’s cell.

He hardly had time to look around when he saw Aunt Bellatrix in the doorway. He gasped and backed into a counter. It was like looking at a ghost, but she had lighter hair and kinder, caramelized eyes that reminded him vaguely of his mother’s.

“Draco, this is your aunt, Andromeda,” said Potter. “She’s willing to let you live here until you’re healthy again.”

Andromeda examined Draco with curiosity and horror, her fingers drifting over her mouth. “So you’re my nephew?” she whispered softly.

He nodded, still too terrified to talk. One minute, he had thought his Aunt Bellatrix was alive, and the next minute he was meeting his disowned Aunt Andromeda.

She returned his nod. “Harry, will you fetch Molly from Teddy’s room?”

Potter walked past her, leaving Draco, Granger, and Andromeda in the kitchen alone. Granger looked between Draco and Andromeda as they stared at each other. Draco wondered if she was trying to find the similarities of their family in his face like he was doing with hers.

A moment later, Potter walked back in with a lumpy redhead women Draco presumed to be Mrs. Weasley, and a little boy with dark hair and a sad face, who must’ve been Teddy. Mrs. Weasley took one look at Draco, shook her head, and handed Teddy off to Andromeda before rushing over to the stove to make food.

“Draco, this is Teddy, your cousin,” said Andromeda between cooing at the little boy. “Do you want to go shopping with Granmummy? Hmm? Would Teddy like to go with Granmummy?” Giving them a nod of farewell, she left the kitchen with Teddy.

“Draco, would you like some lunch?” Mrs. Weasley asked from the stove. “Sit down, now, so I can feed you properly.”

Potter gave Draco a forced smile. “Told you she’d have fun with you,” he said, earning him a smack on the head with the wooden spoon Mrs. Weasley held.

Draco looked between his two peers at the table. Both sat on either side of the table, leaving an empty seat next to them. Who should he sit with? The Mudblood or the one who potentially ruined his life and saved him from it? He found himself literally repulsed by the thought of both sitting next to Granger or sitting across from her and looking into her great ugly face. His face shifted into a pained expression.

Potter sighed and stood, heading towards the back door. “Mrs. Weasley, I really have to go, they need me at Headquarters–“

“Nonsense, dear!” Mrs. Weasley said as she twirled her wand inside a pot. “You need a good meal to fill you in.” She clucked like a great hen. “You’re still too thin.”

Granger and Potter exchanged a humored look. “Fine, Mrs. Weasley,” said Potter cheerfully, making a point to sit next to Granger this time.

Draco cautiously took a seat across from the duo, giving Potter a small, grateful nod of the head. He returned it, a grin curling his lips. Draco’s heartbeat quickened at the thought of those lips.

“So, Harry,” Granger said, breaking Potter’s eye contact with Draco. “Tell us about the trial!”


	6. A Heady Rush

“Did you say everything I told you to?” Granger asked, gripping Potter’s arm like it was a lifeline.

Something inside Draco burst. Everything Potter had said in the trial had been a rehearsed lie, then. Of course it was; Potter was not known for his pretty words. Of course Granger had made all of that up to get Draco out. He wondered why they decided to save him of all people. Perhaps they thought he knew of the whereabouts of other Death Eaters or supporters of the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t tell them anything if they asked. They decided that themselves.

“Yeah, Hermione, it was great. Thanks for helping so much, I know you didn’t need to.”

Granger smiled. “It’s no problem, really.”

“And how are your parents doing?” Potter asked.

“Oh, they’re doing fine; Healer Westwick said that they were recovering their memories at an astounding rate. I went to see them for a bit this morning and they recognized me.” Granger’s eyes filled with tears. She hastily wiped them away. “Mrs. Weasley, when is Ron coming home?”

Mrs. Weasley set down a pot of soup and a loaf of bread on the table in front of Draco. “Ron’s still helping George with setting the shop back up, but he should be back home around nine tonight if you’d like to stop by.” She Levitated three goblets of pumpkin juice in front of each of them. “I have to go help the Order for a few hours, but I’ll be back soon. Help yourself to whatever you need, dears.”

She placed kisses on the top of both Potter and Granger’s heads and left without another word.

Draco ladled the thick cream-colored soup into his bowl, refusing to meet their eyes. As he was about to tuck in, he spoke up. “So, Potter, all that you said during the trial was a rehearsed lie?” His gray eyes met Potter’s emerald irises and heat blossomed in his chest.

Potter’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, of course not, why would you think that?”

“You got Granger to make that pretty story about how I was innocent,” replied Draco softly. He dipped his spoon into his soup and tasted it cautiously. It was onion soup, not his favorite, but he was suddenly ravenous. He tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf and chewed eagerly, almost forgetting his stunned audience.

“You’ve got to be joking, Malfoy!” Granger snapped. “Harry _told_ me what he thought, and I simply helped him so that he could get you out of there! He legitimately thinks you’re innocent!” She stirred at her soup furiously. “You’re the biggest fool ever if you honestly think we’re trying to _use_ you!”

A fine blush spread across Draco’s cheeks as he gagged on his bread. “And why wouldn’t you? What’s stopping you from interrogating me?” he choked out.

“Your innocence,” said Potter, a frown creating a crease in his brow.

Draco fell silent and returned to eating. He was not innocent. He’d never killed anyone, sure, but he had used his fair share of the other two Unforgiveable Curses. He flinched at the thought of innocent people crippling under his Cruciatus Curse. Those people were innocent. He deserved their pain.

“Malfoy, you don’t know anything about the location of any other Death Eaters, right?” asked Granger. Potter let out a hiss and she pursed her lips. “We might as well ask, Harry, it’s not like it’s going to really change anything.”

Chewing his bread thoughtfully, Draco pondered if he should lie. Would it save his reputation anymore to tell them the truth? He sighed heavily. “I don’t know where they are,” he lied, feigning ignorance. “We weren’t particularly popular with the Dark Lord near the end of the War,” he added truthfully.

Potter nodded. “We figured as much.”

Draco’s blood boiled, fury cascading over him in sweltering waves. “Oh, so you know me, Potter? You _know_ what I went through all those damn months?” He stood up so fast that his chair fell to the floor with a clatter and his unfinished bowl of soup overturned, spilling its precious contents over the wood table top. “You can _figure_ that my life was bloody fucking hell the last couple of years?”

He kicked the chair and it skidded across the wood a few feet. “Fuck you, Potter,” he rasped, using up the last of his voice.

Granger bared her teeth. “You insufferable prat!” she screeched, tugging out her wand. Draco flinched back, and for a brief moment he thought that the Mudblood was going to hex him. She simply waved her wand over his mess and righted the chair. “Harry has better things to do than to save your sorry hind from the mess you got into, but he saved you anyway.”

The she-beast rounded the table, her wand still pointing at him. “So maybe you should start being a bit more grateful and a lot less of an unappreciative git!” Draco backed into a counter and she continued to close in on him. She jabbed her wand at his throat threateningly and overwhelming fear incased him.

Granger was exactly like the witch that caught him. He shuddered with unwanted flashbacks of being stuck in a cell, caged like a dirty animal. Draco slid to the floor, his eyes glassy with tears. He grasped his knees to his chest and stared up at her in horror. He felt like a child again, facing punishment from his father. His lungs constricted and his gasped for air.

“Hermione!” Potter bellowed, yanking her away from Draco. “Can’t you see you’re scaring him?” His face swam in Draco’s vision and he shrank back.

Granger’s labored breathing was heard from the other side of the kitchen. “Harry, he’s impossible!” she protested.

Potter shook his head and refocused on shivering Draco. “Want any more food?” he whispered softly. Draco shook his head frantically. He wanted out of this room.

“Bath?” Draco choked out.

The Gryffindor boy nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds good. Need some help getting up?”

Draco nodded and Potter reached out for his shaking hands. He allowed himself to be pulled up, and stumbled into Potter’s chest, where he received a heady rush of Potter’s manly man smell. It made him want to whimper.

“Come on, now,” mumbled Potter, hitching Draco further into standing position. They started forward, Slytherin and Gryffindor, giving Granger a wide berth so that Draco didn’t cower in fear. Together they stumbled through a bare hallway to a small bathroom.

Once Draco was perched on the closed seat of the loo, Potter asked the inevitable “Do you need someone to help, or…?” It had an awkward edge to it that made Draco grin.

“No, Potter,” he rasped, “I might be able to do this myself. I would like clothing to change into afterwards, though.”

It was like someone had cast _Incendio_ into Potter’s mind. “Oh yeah. I hope you don’t mind some Muggle clothes of mine.” Draco must have made a face because Potter began to mumble quickly and apologetically. “I mean, we’re about the same size and everything and it’s all I’ve got to loan since I’m a bit low on clothing of all means. I suppose I should go shopping soon but between trying to get you out of jail and helping to rebuild Hogwarts and trying to find Death Eaters–” Potter cut off as if he had said something he shouldn’t had. 

“It’s fine,” muttered Draco, high color spotting his cheeks. They would never find the rest of the Death Eaters. And if they did, by Merlin, he almost doubted many of them would get out alive.

“Er… I’ll go get the clothes,” said Potter. He turned and hastily walked back out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Draco forced himself into a standing position and began to shed his tattered, grimy robes. He tried to not look into the mirror, but simple curiosity and narcissism got the best of him. Throwing caution to the wind, he looked at his reflection with a gasp.

“Oh, my hair,” he groaned, fingering the limp, oily clumps of platinum hair. It was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Slowly, Draco found more disgusting things wrong with his appearance. Thick honey-colored stubble coated his cheeks and chin, and his eyes were sunken into his pale, dirty face. He took a step back and examined his jutting ribs and shoulder blades, flinching as he touched random yellow bruises on his body.

Stumbling into the bath, he stood, unaware of how to get the thing working. It didn’t have a tap similar to the baths in Hogwarts, but a holey metal contraption on the wall that pointed straight down at his head. The bath didn’t have all four walls either; one went up to his knees and was probably not even a quarter of the length of his wand.

Oh, how he missed his wand.

Draco looked around, still wary of turning the water on without another wall to catch it. He was sure flooding the bathroom would be frowned upon by Andromeda. Plus, he didn’t want to feel like the slightly more filthy and corporeal version of Moaning Myrtle.

Somehow, he found that the half-partition of a glass wall that covered half the opening of the bath could separate and slide, closing off the bath from the rest of the room. Now he only had to turn the water on.

“Water on,” Draco demanded. Nothing happened. “Start,” he tried again. He nudged the metal thing on the wall with a hesitant finger. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered angrily. Maybe if he pulled on the ball thing that was waist high. He tugged gently on it and nothing happened. He pushed down and still, no water. He pulled it up and suddenly, tepid water was pouring from the holey device on the wall.

Draco jumped back. It was like a warm summer rain. He wished it was hotter. He experimented with nudging the knob to the right and the water turned icy. Shivering, he leaned forward again and nudged it back to the left and the water slowly warmed back up to a delightful heat. Warily, he stepped into the stream of water and sighed in pleasure. If only all rain felt like this in this weird, vertical bath.

After a couple minutes of soaking in the water, he grabbed the least feminine shampoo on the shelf and squirted a generous amount into the palm of his hand. It smelled familiar, almost like Potter. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Trying to think of less arousing thoughts, he scrubbed the shampoo into his hair with a force that would make his mother frown. She always did tell him to take special care of his hair, especially since she wanted it to someday be as long as his father’s own blonde mane.

Draco rubbed the shampoo into his hair vigorously, his ripped fingernails scraping his scalp almost painfully. Bubbles splattered on the tiled and glass walls surrounding him, and he was nearly blinded by some of them.

Regretfully, he turned his back to the stream of water and began to rinse away the soap in his hair. He tipped his head back so the suds would stay out of his eyes, enjoying the pounding water on his forehead and sore skull.

The door opened on the other side of the room and Draco froze, watching as Potter walked in with a pile of clothes and a towel. “Sorry it took so long, I had to find some pants–” Potter stopped in midsentence as he caught sight of Draco’s naked, wet, soapy body. “Fuck,” Potter hissed. Covering his eyes with one hand, he set the clothing down on the lid of the loo and hung the towel on the rack beside the bath. “Sorry,” he said breathily as he hurried back out of the room, almost forgetting to shut the door behind him.

Draco, blushing furiously, returned to bathing, refusing to take into consideration why Potter was so out of breath.


	7. To Be Trusted

Once Draco was done taking his wonderful vertical bath, he toweled off and changed into the Muggle clothing Potter had left him. The tartan shirt hung limply off his thin frame, and the denim trousers kept sliding down his bony hips. With his beard, he felt like a mountain man. He took his time fixing his wet hair to how he liked it, parted to one side and out of his face. He was in no hurry to venture out of the relatively safe bathroom to face Potter. The thought made him flush with embarrassment.

It seemed like Draco would never be safe from Potter when it came to being in bathrooms.

He snickered softly and with one final pat to his hair, he squared his shoulders and walked out of the bathroom like a man. After a quick fight to remember which way down the hallway was to the kitchen, he started towards it, halting right beside the doorway when he heard a whispered conversation.

“Well, personally, I don’t believe him,” Granger whispered in her infernal domineering voice.

_Oh, Granger, you insufferable wench. Of course you don’t believe me. And with good reason too, since you are exactly right to do so._

“Well, I do,” replied Potter waspishly. “I know that I have no solid reason to trust _Malfoy_ , of all people, but… I don’t know, I just do!”

Draco’s heart gave a small squeeze, his chest tightening uncomfortably as he recognized the feelings of guilt and disappointment in himself.

Granger gave an unladylike snort. “Okay, Harry, let’s look at the facts. Malfoy tried to kill Dumbledore. Malfoy is a Death Eater. Malfoy has never liked any of us and I don’t hold a single hope in my soul that he ever will. Christ, Harry, he even told me that he hoped the heir of Slytherin would kill me first! I could go on and on of all the wrongs he’s done us, and the fact of the matter is that _Malfoy is not to be trusted_ ,” Granger finished breathily.

He couldn’t take it anymore. With a small burst of indignation and anger, Draco righted himself and sauntered into the kitchen as best his weak body could allow. A small smirk curled the corner of his lips and he almost felt like his former self. “Not to be trusted, eh, Granger?” drawled Draco, all fear of her evaporating with the rush of his ego coming back to him.

The bushy-haired Mudblood jerked her head back towards the doorway, where Draco leaned haughtily against the wood of the frame. She almost looked shocked and almost embarrassed. “Malfoy,” she said from gritted teeth.

“I think I’m the one that shouldn’t trust _you_ , Granger,” Draco continued, enjoying the look of distaste on her face more than he should have. “Of course, you and your Order have fought against my kind just as vehemently as we fought against you. There’s nothing to say that your Gryffindor nobility and kindness will hold up so far as to keep me alive as soon as you’re finished with me.” His smirk widened as she clenched her teeth even closer together. “But my Slytherin cunning and prowess will hold up on a deal as long as it saves my ass and helps me survive. _Surely_ you’ve figured that out so far? I mean, you would’ve gotten top marks in seventh year if you had stayed at Hogwarts instead of out there… fighting and surviving in the wild like an animal, if the rumors are true.”

Draco ran a hand through his baby-fine blonde hair, an action that seemed to attract Potter’s attention. He felt as if his face was to crack from how large his smirk had become. He watched Granger’s face go through a hideous range of emotions with a perverse sense of glee.

Finally, almost thirty seconds later, Granger had, just as Draco had expected, burst with, “You didn’t get top marks in seventh year either! You haven’t graduated either, just like us!”

He shrugged, much to her visible chagrin. “Trivial fact that any first year could have pulled out of their ass. I didn’t need to get top marks at that loony-bin school; I almost had top marks with the Dark Lord, which is all that matters to me.”

She let out a huff. “Top marks, eh? What about not being in favor with Voldemort near the end?”

Draco refused to flinch at the name, but a muscle in his jaw jumped against his will. “In case you didn’t notice, no one was in favor with the Dark Lord near the end. Not even Professor Snape, for Merlin’s sake. Unless I’ve gotten my facts messed up? Severus Snape was killed at the hands of the Dark Lord, yes?” The suddenly closed-off looks on their faces confirmed what Draco already knew to be true.

Slightly smug about how this had turned out, he turned his grin to Potter. “Do you mind showing me my room, Potter?”

The two Gryffindors exchanged a look and Potter stood from the table. “Of course,” he said. Draco let him brush by and followed the raven-haired boy through the hall and into a plain bedroom with two beds pushed up on either side of the walls.

“Oh, and who am I bunking with?” Draco inquired with a bit of the leftover excitement coating his words.

Potter winced a bit, an action that was not lost on Draco. “Me.”

“W-what?” spluttered Draco, grabbing onto the door frame with a pale hand. No, no, this could not be. He, Slytherin to boot, rooming with _the Chosen One_ , the golden Gryffindor? Surely Hell had frozen over at that exact moment.

“Well, with me being Teddy’s godfather, and me being Sirius’ godson and Sirius being Andromeda’s cousin, she couldn’t bear to let me live alone in Grimmauld Place, and with Kreacher being gone and helping Hogwarts house elves regroup and take care of a few of the people that stay there to try and rebuild, I didn’t really want to be alone either.” Green eyes caught stormy gray, and Draco found he could not look away. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He let a smile twist his colorless features. “Of course I don’t mind, Potter, I’m just surprised you trust me enough to sleep in the same room as me.”

Potter turned his eyes to the window, which showed how lovely the spring day was turning. “I trust you.”

Draco swallowed against the hard lump that had formed in his throat. “Which bed is mine?”

“The one with the blue duvet.” Also the one that was the farthest away from the window and the door, Draco noticed. “Sorry, Malfoy, I have to get back to Hogwarts and help rebuild some more. I’ll see you around.” Without a glance back, Potter pushed his glasses further up his nose and almost ran out. A few seconds later, Draco heard the voices of the two friends and two small pops, reminding him that he was utterly alone now.

Taking a deep breath, the flaxen-haired boy laid out over the soft fabric of his bed. He felt his lids grow heavy with fatigue, remembering the hard cot he had previously slept on for a little over twenty days. Despite the company of Andromeda’s house, he had to admit, this was a lot better than that damned cell.

Draco let the weariness of the past year seep into his bones and curled up, falling asleep with an ease he had not been able to find since being young and carefree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new to this site and can't figure out how to change the completion date! This is definitely not a completed work. If anyone can help, that'd be great.


	8. A Gaping Hole

Draco awoke still sprawled out across the blue duvet, his cheek pressed against the fabric in a way that he was sure left a mark. He looked up blearily to the window across the room, watching the rain fall in sheets. For a few blissful seconds, Draco enjoyed the feeling of being fully rested and calm. He closed his eyes and grinned.

From the door, a voice cleared. Draco lifted his head to look at Potter. “Yes?” Draco croaked, his throat still not used to speaking after almost a month of silence.

“I’ve brought you food,” Potter said cheerfully. “I figured it’d be nice to let you sleep in a little, and I know you’re uncomfortable with all the people that have been coming and going today.” He crossed the room to Draco’s bed and set a dinner tray full of food on the table next to him.

Draco sat up and picked up the glass of water, taking small sips reminiscent to the ones he took while imprisoned. Stomach churning, he placed it back on the tray and slid backwards until his back rested comfortably against the smooth white wall. “So, Potter, how’s the wizarding world? Fairing well after you played savior for the filth of the world?”

Potter’s smile disappeared as he sat on his own bed and Draco found himself missing the cheery curl of his lips a bit. “Yes, Malfoy,” the half-blood muttered darkly, “things have been going quite well. The Order is doing its part to rebuild and right what’s wrong.”

Draco absently tugged at a loose thread on the duvet. “And will Hogwarts be open next year?”

Potter’s brow furrowed and Draco caught a glimpse of Potter’s famous scar crinkle under the boy’s dark mop. “Not sure yet. Why exactly do you care, Malfoy?”

“I don’t know,” Draco answered quickly and defensively. “I did live in that world my whole life, Potter.”

“You can’t mean you miss it when you tried so hard to destroy it!”

Draco ran a trembling hand over his trousers and clutched the material at his slightly bent knee. “I tried to make it a better place!” _I thought I was doing the right thing!_ Draco added to himself silently.

Potter stood suddenly, knocking his knee against the bedside table. Water sloshed out of the glass and seeped into the bread of the ham and cheese sandwich. “Think again, Malfoy,” he seethed. “Also, you have a huge line on the side of your face.” Draco’s hand flew up to his face and he massaged his cheek, watching as Potter continued stomping out of the room in such a fashion that would have made the old Draco gleeful at least. All Draco could feel now though was a gaping hole in his stomach. Figuring it was just hunger, he picked up the sodden sandwich and bit down.

Despite the soggy texture to it, it was actually kind of good. Good enough for Draco to eat it in only four rapid mouthfuls. When he was done, he stroked his cheek with his thumb once more. Yes, it was just the hunger. Of course.


	9. A Smothering Hell

Despite the few fantastic hours of sleep he had gotten before, Draco fell asleep again almost immediately, his belly full and the rain outside lulling him into a false sense of security. For the first time in weeks, he let down his defenses and slept.

He hadn’t had the Fiendfyre dream in quite awhile, and it seemed the nightmare had finally caught up with him. A flaming basilisk coiled and struck out at him, and he has to dive through a hole in the wall of rubbish to avoid being burned. On the other side, a phoenix swooped down at him, balls of fire pouring down its face like tears and dropping near Draco as he ran and ran, leaping and bounding over things like forgotten tables and smashed potions bottles. The door never got any closer and smoke started shrouding everything in sight.

Draco coughed, his breath ragged as he pulled his robes over his nose and mouth. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes so badly that he stumbled into a pile of old armchair fluff. He couldn’t find the brooms that Potter used to get them all out before. It was hopeless.

He was officially a goner for sure.

A flaming chimera rounded a corner and sped towards him, its breath scorching Draco’s flesh. He screamed in pain as his skin festered and peeled away as more and more fiery beasts closed in on him. Hope leached away with every blast of fire that was sent his way.

Back in Andromeda’s little brick house, the hopeless blonde boy screamed himself back into the present. The blue duvet had somehow covered him while he was asleep, and the once-comforting fabric was now a smothering hell. Draco tore his sweaty limbs from it and fell knees-first to the floor, inhaling lungful after lungful of oxygen.

There was no Fiendfyre here. There was no smoke. There was only steady rain outside and clear air inside. But it was not enough. Shaking almost as hard as the loose windowpanes at Hogwarts in a bad storm, he stood and stumbled out the room, making his way down the hall until he found the kitchen. He wrenched the back door open and lurched out into the cold rain.

Within seconds he was drenched, his clothing clinging to his skin. Still weak from the dream and his couple of weeks in the Ministry, he sunk into the muddy grass. He was already freezing, but at least the rain was clearing his mind of the smoke and the sight of his bubbling, charring skin.

He pulled his legs up to his chest and hugged them, shivering terribly, his teeth chattering. He’d catch his death out here. He wasn’t sure if he would mind. After years and years of trying to beat death by working with whichever side was winning, he didn’t care about living as much anymore. He took a deep breath, sucking in a few drops of water that poured off his nose. He wondered how it would feel to drown to death. Probably better than burning to death.

And, by Merlin, he really did deserve to die. He wasn’t a great student, he was a lousy friend, he was a shoddy follower, and he was a disappointing son. He rested his forehead on his knees, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He was a Malfoy; Malfoys did not cry, and they certainly did not wish for death. But here he was, sitting in mud in the yard of an old Mudblood’s house, having quite the pity party. He could only imagine how mortified his father would be to see his son like this.

“Malfoy?” a voice called from behind Draco.

He slowly lifted his head and turned to see Potter silhouetted in the doorway of the kitchen. “Potter,” Draco croaked in reply.

Potter disappeared for a moment and returned with an umbrella, padding across the muddy grass in his bare feet to stand over Draco with the umbrella. “Come back inside.” He offered Draco his hand and without having to think about it, he grabbed it, letting Potter pull him up. He didn’t say anything as Potter led him back into the kitchen and sat him down at the table.

“I woke up and thought you’d ran off,” said Potter as he busied himself with heating some onion soup.

“N-n-n-no,” Draco chattered, almost unable to utter the word, he was shaking so hard.

Potter looked over at Draco. “You’re shivering.”

“N-n-no sh-sh-sh-shit-t-t,” he replied sarcastically.

Potter smiled a bit as he took his wand out from his back pocket. “I’ll either end up drying you or setting you on fire,” he warned, and before Draco could react, Potter had waved his wand.

No flames sprang up to envelope him, but his clothes were suddenly as warm and dry as if they’d been hanging in front of a fire for several hours. He sighed deeply and tucked his tartan shirt closely around his body. “T-thanks,” he chattered, still chilled to the bone but at least he was now dry.

Wizarding-kind’s savior smiled, looking rather pleased with himself. “We’ll have to find you some clothes that fit better. Those are more or less falling off.”  
  
Draco stayed silent. He didn’t want Potter’s help, or Andromeda’s help, or any of the Order’s help. He steepled his fingers and rested the bridge of his nose along his fingertips, closing his eyes. He wanted this all to be over. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to right his crooked world.  
  
There was a thunk of a bowl being set down on the scrubbed wooden table, and Draco jerked back to attention, making Potter take a sudden step back. “Sorry,” they muttered simultaneously. Draco flushed and picked up the spoon from the bowl of soup, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of lukewarm onion soup into his mouth.  
  
He glared down at the bowl, trying to concentrate on one thing at a time. Finally, he dared to glance up at Potter. The boy – no, Potter was a man now, not only because of his age, but because of how the war would not have let him out of its clutches without inducing some sort of maturation or mental change – was watching Draco intensely with a furrowed brow. Or maybe he was staring through Draco, because he did not react when Draco looked up. He supposed he should feel uncomfortable with Potter staring at him, but he couldn’t feel a bloody thing; just the emptiness that the war and the nightmare had left behind.  
  
Suddenly Potter snapped out of his fixation and both averted their eyes from the other’s face. He cleared his throat and said, “I suppose if we both transformed our appearances, I could assist you in finding some clothes that fit you.”  
  
Draco looked up, confusion paling out his face even more so. “You would do that?”  
  
The corner of Potter’s lips twitched, as if he was fighting off a smile. “It’d have to be Muggle shopping though, I’m afraid.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t go out in the Wizarding world without a guard.”  
  
He knew what that meant. The Order was still anticipating an attack; perhaps even the Ministry had finally gotten their toe into the door of the Order’s plans as well, and was providing certain necessary precautions when it came to Potter’s protection. The guard, no doubt, had not one skilled wizard, but many. Draco was surprised by how smart the Order was, even though they were wasting their time. Unless there was a Voldemort sympathizer out there that the Death Eaters didn’t know about, Potter would be safe for the time being. Especially with the remaining population of the Wizarding world kissing his arse.  
  
“Perhaps by the end of the week?” Potter suggested before making his way out of the kitchen. “Just let me know in advance.”  
  
Draco sat in the warm, dimly lit kitchen alone for a long time, long past the soft snores of Potter’s resumed sleep drifted through the hallway.


End file.
